


a silent sorry

by qlairdelune



Series: Original Work [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, F/M, Inspired by Book, Inspired by Monkey Beach (by Eden Robinson), M/M, POV First Person, Smoking, this is just another reason for me to write a smoking scene, you can imagine the couple as m/m or m/f
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qlairdelune/pseuds/qlairdelune
Summary: The beach is a cold place to be stuck in especially in the evenings when the sun starts drifting to her mansion of rest, leaving residues of pink and purple hues in the sky. There is something in me that I really want to let out—a word, a sigh, a gas, my lunch. Yeah, I think it’s the latter.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Original Work [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641055
Kudos: 2





	a silent sorry

**Author's Note:**

> hi, so this story is inspired by the book Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson. it's a really good coming of age story and i would suggest you to please read it if you have the chance. since the gender of the speaker is vague, you can imagine them to be either a he or a she. enjoy, comments are welcomed!

The beach is a cold place to be stuck in especially in the evenings when the sun starts drifting to her mansion of rest, leaving residues of pink and purple hues in the sky. There is something in me that I really want to let out—a word, a sigh, a gas, my lunch. Yeah, I think it’s the latter.

“So, when are you leaving?” It’s harmless, his tone is friendly, but it still twists my guts painfully. There is a lump in my throat that I have to swallow.

“Soon.” I said. _ But not soon enough _ is something that usually follows, though not this time. I’m parched, and my gut is twisting like one of those boneless men acts you typically see in the circus. My feet are soaked, and cold, and numb, and I’m dumb enough to walk barefoot along the line where the land and the sea meet. The silence is heavy between us, save for the sound of birds flying back home and waves hitting rocks in the distance. We used to say so much, not enough time to breathe or blink. Now, it’s just this. Heavy silence. Like a black cloud looming over our shoulders, ready to rain on us. Andre is watching me, intently, as if I was the last sight he would ever see. It’s uncomfortable and—

Look, I made this long list about how to calm your insides through every uncomfortable situation which is rated 10/10 works all the time: whip out your cigarette, trace it along your lips, taste the filter, feel the tenderness of it. Feel the pockets of your jacket for your near-empty lighter, and when a lighter magically appears in front of you courtesy of Andre’s kindness. Light it up. Inhale, inhale it deep like it’s your last smoke on earth, savor it like it’s your last meal on death row. Feel the warmth spread over your chest. Exhale. 

“I thought you quit?” I laugh at that. 

“Like hell I could.” Inhale another puff, exhale another one. He looks at me funnily. 

“Well, you should.” I know where this is going. It’s like the nth time someone has lectured me about quitting. _Bla bla bla_ _bad for you bla bla bla you could die young bla bla bla cancer_ and all that shit doesn’t make me feel nauseous anymore—doesn’t deter any cell of my being anymore. 

“Fuck off.” Scoffing, I kick the sand underneath my feet. He then goes on to give me the same old lecture about sickness and death and shit. _ Shit _ , my gut is acting up again; twisting and turning like nobody’s business. I feel another lump on my throat, this time it’s like forcing itself back up my mouth and I can taste bitterness in the back of my tongue. _ Shit shit shit, _ I thought. He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort though which is _ good _ because the last thing I would do is to throw all of my intestines in front of my childhood best friend on the last day before my departure. _ Great timing, right? _

I don’t think I heard what he said next before crouching down and throwing everything I ate this afternoon into the ocean. I can already imagine what a lady-like sight I must be right now; face red, eyes watery, ungracefully gagging. Time seems to have slipped my mind as I continue my business. 

Coming back to my senses, after what felt like _ years _ of vomiting and crying and struggling to breathe properly, I realize that his fingers might have been messaging my nape all along. He washes my face with salt water (the one not directly beneath or around the place in which I _ willingly _ emit my meal in an uncontrolled flow, though I’m not sure you can really avoid such horrendous crime scene left courtesy of yours truly) and ushers (more like _ drags _ ) me to a dryer sand. I cough a little more, tasting the salty aftertaste of the water previously, and whilst I’m in the middle of my coughing fit, he leaves. He just leaves. Like the fucking gentleman that he is. _ I’m going to fucking kill him _.

“Here.” a familiar voice says after a minute. “Drink.”

So he’s not so bad after all. 

I take the bottle, chug it, and close my eyes. Laying down on the dry sand, I curse myself and the high heavens for letting me embarrass myself in front of this man, whom I _ love _ dearly for so long, on the possibly last day I will probably see him because I have already planned to skip graduation (which is two days away) and this nervous _ train-wreck _ is not at all prepared to tell him that I’m leaving _ tomorrow _ because it’s harsh and rude to treat your loved ones, _ or anyone _ for that matter, in such cruelty. _ I am totally fine _. 

“You literally just vomited, like, two seconds ago, you’re not okay.” Apparently I may have just voiced that out loud. Opening my eyes, I find him looking at me hard, like he’s about to scold a five-year-old kid for being a mess in public (which, to be fair, may as well be true). “What’s wrong?” I kid you not; the softness in his tone is so unfamiliar and unsettling.

“I leave tomorrow morning.” I finally admit, resigned. “At dusk. To the airport.” He looks like he’s trying very hard to process that information and then silence.

“Oh.” Is what he finally utters after a whole minute. Realization hits, and I swear there is a hint of disappointment in his eyes. I feel bad. “So, um—this is—“

“This is goodbye.” I say quickly before silence takes over. “Sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

“No, no. I mean—“ _ Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. _ “—I mean I’ve been busy myself, so there is no need for you to be sorry.” He smiles so wide his eyes seem to disappear into a thin line. He’s lying through his teeth like I wouldn’t notice. 

“Still,” I sit straight, looking at the mask he puts on, searching for a crack somewhere, desperately. “I should’ve told you sooner. You’re my _ best friend _.”

He seems to wince at that notion before getting up and offering his hands which I take, gladly. The beach is empty now; I mean it has always been empty on weekdays safe for a few passers-by who live near-by. I didn’t realize we have been alone all along. 

“It’s okay.” It’s not reassuring. His words usually have such effects but not this. He looks around uncomfortably, then at his own watch. He’s trying to escape and I understand.

“Look at the time!” Exclaims him nervously. “I really have to go back home now, Nana is expecting me.”

“Sure,” I offer him a forceful smile. “Take care of yourself.” _ Ask him to stay. _

“Goodbye.” _ Stay, please _. “Oh, and good luck.”

He smiles, one last time, a silent _ sorry _. I return the smile, one last time, before breaking down right then and there. 


End file.
